WARM WINTER KISSES a feel good Christmas romance novel Read Free Page A

what I felt like doing. It would have been distasteful and lowered the tone.
    Had it been left to me though, I’d still have been buried under a duvet, nursing my wounded pride, but I hadn’t counted on Lexi’s dogged persistence in getting me up and out of the front door.
    At half-hourly intervals she rang. ‘Have you got in that shower yet?’
    Then, ‘You do know where you’re going, don’t you?’
    Followed by, ‘Wear your pinstripe skirt suit with your heels, you look good in that.’
    And finally, ‘And for goodness sake, don’t be late.’
    With Lexi on my case I didn’t stand a chance. But she needn’t have worried on the punctuality front. Lateness is one of my pet hates too, so at least Rocco and I would have something in common.
    I arrived five minutes early and was shown to a huge, squashy brown leather sofa that looked incredibly comfortable, but in reality was so close to the floor, it was impossible to sit upright. I slid down the soft hide, pinning my arms back into the yielding cushions, in an attempt to stop me from landing in an ungainly heap. The understated, elegant look was proving elusive.
    The same couldn’t be said for the busy lunchtime eatery, which didn’t have to try so hard. It reeked of class and sophistication. From the outside it was unremarkable, a brick-clad building with a double-fronted bronzed window, tucked away down a cobbled mews street in the heart of Chelsea, the only clue to its identity the gold lettering of the chef’s name etched into the doors. Inside, it was effortlessly stylish; an eclectic mix of oak and leather with a blend of antique and contemporary furniture, bright canvas prints decorating the wall and single orchids lending a dash of colour to the linen tablecloths.
    From my vantage point at the front of the restaurant I could easily survey the clientele. I spotted Mark Burton, the morning TV presenter, deep in conversation with a lady companion, and Rafe Jennings, the showbiz editor on one of the tabloids, enjoying a joke, but mainly it was city types in designer suits, media darlings and expensively clad ladies who were lunching.
    Oh, how the other half lived! One day, I told myself . . .
    The smells emanating from the kitchen and the chink of cutlery of the diners enjoying their haute cuisine reminded me I was starving. Breakfast hadn’t had a look in due to my broken heart and now my stomach was gurgling in protest. I had a feeling I might be one of those people who turned to comfort food in times of crisis. Wondering if they could rustle me up a bowl of cornflakes, I glanced at my watch. Hmmm, thirty-five minutes and waiting. So much for Mr Di Castri being a stickler for punctuality. It obviously didn’t extend to keeping other people waiting. But then again, from what I’d heard, Rocco was a law unto himself.
    Did I really need to work for a volatile control freak in my vulnerable condition? I’d heard he expected nothing less than perfection from his team of chefs and it wasn’t unknown for him to reduce his staff to tears, ordering them off the premises if he felt they hadn’t worked to his impossibly high standards.
    And it wasn’t only the kitchen staff who felt the wrath of his tongue; the restaurant got through waitresses by the coach load. Although, if you believed what you read in the newspapers, that may have had something to do with Rocco’s habit of wooing the poor girls into bed before he carelessly disposed of them.
    Customers, too, were asked to leave without a morsel passing their lips if the great man, for whatever reason, took exception to them.
    I knew all this and yet I didn’t feel intimidated about meeting him. He may have ruled his own little centre of the universe with his over-inflated sense of ego, but I wasn’t about to let some jumped up chef bully me. It wasn’t as if I desperately needed this job, I told myself. If the worst came to the worst, I could always hop on a plane and join my parents on their foreign